


childhood

by lo fi asmr (s0dafucker)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Poetry, Child Abuse, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, everything i write is in lapslock get used to it, lapslock, poetry?, prose, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 06:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15090827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/lo%20fi%20asmr
Summary: im so glad to be here at open mic night this one's called i have unresolved issues





	childhood

a rosary clutched in a loose fist; you exhale smoke to calm the bees that circle your mouth, the buzzing in your skull and inside it, one with the sickly perfume of the roses that live and die in your lungs 

you're 5, 6, maybe 7, and you’re bleeding red, too red, your nose throbbing, the paint teal and peeling onto the tiles and your mother holds a toilet paper tissue but she never apologizes

_ write about your earliest memory  _ and your hand shakes, pencil loose between your fingers, cuticles aching red and all you know is the paint peeling and thorns scraping your throat

everything is dark and hungry and scared and smells like smoke and then you’re 5 or 6 and bleeding onto white tiles and you’re 11 and inhaling steam and tucking your knees up to your chin, skin wet pure clean and praying that your friend isn’t dead to whatever god you don’t believe in and you’re 12 and bleeding onto tiles again, and your mother doesn’t know and the roses are growing out your mouth with every stuttered apology until you choke and you don’t know how old you are but your body is empty and you do not exist, the bees are vultures are raindrops are maggots 

your lungs don’t work anymore and you are wrapping yourself in bandages shaped like beads and prayers that aren’t answered and baptizing yourself in blood, the inside of your eyelids is red red black and you can’t imagine dying, you whisper; something you trust is on the other side of the confessional, listening, replying in a voice like velvet bonfires and a language you understand when you are not yourself

your eyes are black and your cheeks are wet and her tongue does not shy away from the raw flesh inside your mouth, fingers cold and wiping tears from your eyes; her eyes are gray white and you can see yourself in them, repulsive, watching your eyes in her eyes bleeding into her mouth and you blink and she is gone. she was never there. 

the roses have fallen, lie dead, and they cannot cover the smell of blood and sweat and rot, the smell of you, bruised knuckles and prayers that sound like apologies and the incense they burn at funerals, the smell of gravesoil and smoke and your mother’s perfume and your eyes are black but you can finally see, you look god in the eyes and whisper something you cannot remember, a plea, something that tumbles out of your mouth in jagged syllables, red and sharp and coated with smoke and you wake up cold 

your blood drips down your lips  


End file.
